


The Break, The Splinter, The Shatter

by TrenchcoatsandMisery



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Asha is a good sister, BAMF Asha Greyjoy, BAMF Theon Greyjoy, BAMF Yara Greyjoy, Mind Break, Revenge, Theon Greyjoy-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:55:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27419890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatsandMisery/pseuds/TrenchcoatsandMisery
Summary: **REWRITE OF WE MAKE OUR OWN THRONES**He finds it hard to keep track of time when most days it is a struggle to remember his own name. It feels like years have passed, an age of pain and despair, but he finds his mind is no longer as sure as it once was. The perception of time that slips in and out of his grasp could simply be another trick designed to trap him, like the sympathetic serving boy or the door left off its latch. It doesn’t matter though, not really. It could be useful, if he was able to hold onto it long enough to count the days. He could find the answers to some of those questions that lurk in the dark, always watching, always waiting.How long does it take to break a man?
Relationships: (IMPLIED), Asha Greyjoy & Theon Greyjoy, Ramsay Bolton/Reek, Theon Greyjoy & Yara Greyjoy
Kudos: 6





	1. Dead Man Rising

There’s a strange beauty to blood in snow.

He watches it idly; the drip, the drop. He doesn’t wipe the knife down, simply tucks it back into the cloth of his rags and watches the blood fall from the jagged gash on his palm. He hasn’t seen anything this striking, this _red_ , since the auburn wolf fell from the wall. And that was-

He doesn’t know how long ago that was.

He finds it hard to keep track of time when most days it is a struggle to remember his own name. It feels like years have passed, an age of pain and despair, but he finds his mind is no longer as sure as it once was. The perception of time that slips in and out of his grasp could simply be another trick designed to trap him, like the sympathetic serving boy or the door left off its latch. It doesn’t matter though, not really. It could be useful, if he was able to hold onto it long enough to count the days. He could find the answers to some of those questions that lurk in the dark, always watching, always waiting.

_How long does it take to break a man?_

It wouldn’t change anything though. Not now, not when he knows that there is no rescue waiting on the other side of this prison’s gate. He has been reclaimed by his master, hunted in the forests he once raced through as a boy. He is haunted by his own failure, or he might be the haunting itself, but Sansa, the little red bird and the strong red wolf, is free.

He is not. 

He thought that before, when all he knew was the touch of the master’s knife, the cruel caress of his hands and the poisoned words in his ear, was the darkest his world would ever get. Now, after that brief taste of being Theon again, every sensation and touch and word is a hundred times worse. His name is-

_“Reek” a voice whispers. It sounds like the master._   
_”Theon!” a girl cries. It sounds like home._

He’s not sure what his name is. He wants to ask _her_ , she of the red hair and the kind eyes and the ability to dispense righteous justice upon him, but she is gone. He let her go. Now he is alone, and no one is coming for him. There is no one left who would care enough to look for the person known, or at least once known, as Theon Greyjoy. A nameless woman, _Asha, Yara, sister,_ came a long time ago when his name still meant something. Still held worth. 

His weakness held him back however, and he’s almost glad of it. He cannot grasp her name, or make out her face but his memories tell her she wasn’t one who suffered fools, and really, what was he now but a fool?

Alone, his Master’s words trickle into his ear. _If you think this has a happy ending, you haven’t been paying attention._ The cold has sunk deep into his bones, the temptation to let it sink deeper overruled by simple acceptance. Death is too merciful for what he is now, so he limps away from the beauty of the blood. Returns pitifully into the dank warmth of the kennels, crouching in the shit and the hay next to the sleeping dogs . _Worth more than him in every way, his master's girls higher than scum like him, scum like him who only existed because the master willed it_ . He stares into a puddle of piss _not his own, he struggles with that now, but a creature like him does not deserve comfort_ running damaged hands over damaged skin-

He thinks that Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, might be dead.

The creature in that shallow piss pool digs fingers into brittle white hair, body shaking with such force that the bones creak and groan. Reek would worry for the thing if he wasn’t also struggling to breathe, the rapid thunder of his heart in his chest and the wheezing, keening sound clawing from his throat echoing the terror in the creature's eyes.

_He’s nothing, no one’s coming, no one is there, Master is here, Master will keephimlovehim **hurthim** , the Master-_

A fist slams into his makeshift mirror, the image of the broken man exploding as the liquid splashes onto the dirty, shitty hay that litters the ground around him. Ramsay. His name is _fucking_ **Ramsay** , not Master. And he did this, all on his sick own. He stills, ignores the aching of his muscles as they clench to stop the shudders. Looks around, seeing the confines of his cage for the first time in… a long time. The man who has kept him here is not his master, not even a Bolton. He is not an omnipotent God with the world at the end of his leash. He’s nothing more than a bastard, Ramsay Snow, the bastard who ruined him and paraded him around like an unruly pup brought to heel. Even the knife provided so he could shave _“his lordship”_ is sharp and strong and still on his person, that’s how _blindly obedient_ he’s been. It’s still in his pocket, a hefty weight. _Take it. End this. End you._ He could close his eyes and simply disappear, fear and longing fluttering in his heart at the very thought of it.

Would the drowned gods even let him enter their hall? He is no longer the man he once was and he’s not certain this is a battle they’d acknowledge he’d died fighting in. Would the few times he prayed by the heart tree be enough to pledge himself to the old gods? To Robb’s gods?

Robb.

His hands tighten around the blade and watches as the blood _so, so red. Did it look like this when they opened Robb’s throat?_ drips onto dirt and the sullied rags the bastard convinced him he was worth. He rubs it between his fingers, ruby slick, the grin curling his lips not entirely under his control. 

_End him._

When he stands, it is straight-backed, for the first time in however long it’s been. His hands are still, blood dripping from the blade in his fist, and the hounds track his movements warily from the floor. A long time ago the _bastard_ had told him that they could smell fear, smell betrayal, that the bitches would rip his new toy apart at the first sign of resistance. _These were the early days when Theon Greyjoy heirtotheironislands still lived, still had his name. Before his spirit had been carved out with a knife and a smile._ When he brushes his hand over the nearest ones head it does not attack or growl, or tear him apart. It leans into his touch. Her ribs are showing under her fur, something broken in the whiskey brown eyes that settle on him. Something a little too close to the puddle thing's eyes.

“Don’t worry girls. I’ll feed you soon.”

A laugh bubbles up from his chest as the dog tails beat against the floor in response. He is not the only thing down here in the dark, not the only thing that the bastard has taken a knife too in pursuit of obedience. As he exits his cage, the laugh becomes a giggle. _The door stands unlocked, not even latched. Why lock up tamed animals? Not when you’ve already caged them within their minds, where the chance of escape is all but none._ The dogs growl when he closes it shut behind him, but he shushes them gently.

“No one is coming. But that’s ok. We’re going to save ourselves.”


	2. Dead Man Walking

There’s blood in the snow, on his hands, on the blade. 

He watches it with fascination, the spray of drips, the puddle of drops. Pale skin and the cold weight of silver stained crimson. He thinks perhaps there is a poetry to it, to the contrast. He wonders if he will find the same kind of beauty when Ramsay _Snow_ kneels in front of him, oozing red. 

One can only hope.

He wasn’t certain at first, but the shaving knife is _more_ than a weapon now. It could be his freedom, so when he wields it, it’s with all he has. Where _he_ ends and _it_ begins has faded away, lost in the whirlwind of thought and fight. Bloodshed had never come easily to _Theon_ , always more a lover than a fighter, but he’s not quite sure if that’s still who he is anymore. 

It’s not something to dwell on. Whoever he is now, this comes as easily as breathing. 

With the element of surprise on his side, he cuts through the lower ranks of the Bolton men. Reek has been his reality for so long, not a single guard expects him. The pitiful creature they’ve witnessed beg for scraps on his hands and knees steps out of the shadows, driving a dagger between their ribs before they can even cry out. His vengeance and their fear are a heady mixture, and he breathes it in as he continues on. True fear, the kind of fear he leaves in his wake, died in him the moment he opened that kennel door. The broken thing they had watched be tortured and torn apart, made into something not even worth the spit in their mouths… It now stood before them with blood on its rags and that glint of silver in its hand. It was enough to freeze them in their steps and by the time they reclaimed their senses, their fury at _how dare **he** fight back_, it’s too late.

It’s always too late.

Blood flowing, knife moving, he laughs. It is a bitter, twisted thing that echoes in the halls of his prison twice over. Somewhere, a horn blow’s, both a call to arms and a cry of warning. Again, it comes too late to stop him. He will tear through this ancient wolves den until the flayed man himself comes for his hide. And then he will-

“Hello?”

The voice, a low and trembling whisper, comes from his right. He isn’t sure if he imagined it, _isn’t even sure he isn’t imagining all of this_ , but he pauses long enough to hear it again.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

A child then, locked behind a door of wood and iron.

Another cage. Another captive. 

Or a trick.

Some time ago _(How long has he been doing this?)_ he picked up a ring of keys from the corpse of a fallen guard. The weight of them is almost unbearable as he stares at the door. To open, or not to open? He is wasting time, or maybe he’s not, but the decision must be made. He presses an ear to the door, waits. The child, if the sniffing and uneven breathing is to believed, is crying now.

_You can cry and you can cry and youcancry but no one ever comes. You scream yourself hoarse, you whimper and moan, but no one cares. There is only The Master, and he happens to think you look ever so beautiful with blood and mucus and tears smearing your face. He loves it, more than he loves you, but what matters is that he loves something about you. You know now that no one is coming, so pleasing The Master is the only thing that matters. You will cry and you will cry and youwillcry and he will watch. He will smile._

A hand, his own, unlocks the door. It creaks open, slowly. 

The boy looks up, red eyed, lip wobbling. He pales at the sight of _TheonReekDeadmanwalking_ standing there. 

“Th-Theon.”

Stepping back, Theon wonders if it’s the blood, or his face, or his time under Ramsay’s care that has the boy shrinking into himself.

“Hello, Rickon.”

If his smile, the signature grin from the Theon of old, is missing a few teeth... he's sure the pup won't mind. Things are different now. Things will _be_ different now.


End file.
